


handling the undead

by kingsoftheimpossible



Series: handling the undead [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, ghost!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:39:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The least serious ghost!fic on this entire planet, probably. Harry haunts a playground, and Louis stops by one night after work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	handling the undead

**Author's Note:**

> Obvious warning for prestory!character death because Harry is a ghost, but no one gets too emo about it in the story. This is really not serious at all, I promise.  
> This bears no resemblance to the book with the same title (thank god).  
> Thanks to loml Rhee for holding my hand.

 

The truth is, Harry doesn’t care much for cemeteries. He likes cute boys and big crowds and sunshine, and when he figures out how to leave the gravestones and low-hanging moss for the first time, he never looks back.

* * *

They meet in a playpark near the elementary school where Louis offers drama lessons after class.

One Tuesday, he stays late, drops into the park when the sun’s setting just to have a rest on the swingset, and it’s getting properly dark when he notices the swing next to him swaying gently in the non-existent breeze. 

Which, alright, small disturbances in the air, possibly, maybe vibrations from a distant earthquake traveling through the crust and mantle and centering on this one empty swing in assfuck nowhere- maybe. Louis is tired enough to let the universe have its way with this one.

Until the swing _really_ starts going. Louis drags his feet heavily in the playground sand, grinds his own swing to a halt to watch the empty swing fly _up up up_ then _back back back_ , so high it seems like it might flip over the railing. He feels his jaw drop open, but he can’t really seem to control his face.

That’s when the giggles start.

And, okay, so earthquakes and freakishly compact wind storms probably don’t _giggle_.

“Nope,” Louis says easily, standing abruptly from his swing and brushing the sand from his coat. “Nope, nope, nope,” he repeats, turning sharply and heading for the playground exit with determined strides.

He actually hears the other swing clatter to a stop behind him, and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand straight out. If he happens to start running, hey, no one’s around to see. Theoretically.

The wind makes the oddest noise, like a deep voice whining _waaaaaaiiiit_ , and that’s _really fucking_ _strange_ because there’s still no actual wind to speak of.

“Nope,” Louis says again to no one in particular. He’s nearly at the little iron gate the separates the park from the street when he feels a tug on the end of his scarf.

The urge to scream _Nope!_ one last time before he’s brutally murdered by some unseen force or his own imagination is excruciating, except he can’t quite seem to get his brain to work with his mouth- or the rest of his body, apparently, because he turns to face the _whatthefuckever_ it is instead of running like a stuck piglet.

What he sees when he turns is _nothing-_  except the end of his scarf dangling in midair as if held up by invisible hands.

Louis is a drama teacher- a drama connoisseur, really- and there are literally hundreds of artfully crafted speeches and monologues hidden away in the depths of his mind, which is probably why it’s so disappointing when his brain settles on, “Fuck my stupidfucking _face_.”

The giggles start again, deep little titters that shake the upheld end of Louis’ scarf. And then there’s that not-the-wind-apparently-voice from nowhere, saying “I could try if you like.”

* * *

 

When Louis wakes, he’s freezing cold, staring up at the stars- which is a bit disconcerting because he’s about ninety percent sure he and Zayn paid the rent this month, so he really should still have a roof over his head. His body is aching something fierce as well, and he can’t quite grasp the fuzzy memories of _where_ he is and _why_.

“Hiiiiiiiiiii.”

The raspy,  bodiless voice brings it all back in a rush.

Louis nearly brains himself trying to roll off the park bench he’s laying on- _and when did that happen_ \- and his knees hit the cement hard enough to bring pinprick tears to the corners of his eyes. Even as he hisses _fuck_ , he’s already scrambling to his feet, trying to get away ( _away from **what**_? is the mantra his brain unhelpfully gets stuck on), but his head pounds and his legs are all wobbly and he just ends up back on his knees.

The air around him feels tense, almost like the park itself is worried, and the voice starts up again. “You fainted and hit your head; I really think you shouldn’t-”

Louis is _possibly_ hyperventilating, if the massive squeaky breaths shuddering through him are any indication, and he holds up a hand weakly, mumbles, “Stop, stop, stop, just _stop_.”

The voice, kindly enough, stops.

When he’s sure it won’t start again, Louis crawls back to the park bench, hauls himself up until he’s sitting with his head dropped against the back.

“Okay,” he says aloud, in the vague hope that if he’s talking, nothing else will. “I hit my head. I hit my head and I gave myself a concussion, so that’s- that’s where the voice thing is coming from.”

The air wavers as if it disagrees.

“Shut up,” Louis snaps. And, well, talking to himself or talking to the air, either way it’s not ruling out the concussion hypothesis. “I need...I need to call Zayn.”

“Who’s Zayn?”

Louis leans forward so quickly it feels like he might be sick, buries his face in his hands. “My roommate. I told you to shut up.”

There’s no answer. It doesn’t exactly make him feel better, but pulling his phone out of his coat _does_ help a bit. He dials Zayn’s number, and it rings and rings and rings. Louis isn’t entirely surprised that Zayn didn’t answer, because when does he ever, but just this once would’ve been really fucking nice.

“Are you feeling alright? How’s your head?”

Louis wishes he knew where to angle his truly impressive glare. That’s the problem with conversing with bodiless voices; he can’t figure out what bit of air to be pissed off at.

“My head’s fine.”

“You hit it pretty hard.”

A surge of anger flares up in Louis’ chest, and that’s nice. He can handle that. “And whose fucking fault is that, Casper?” And well, admitting it might be a ghost is the first step to-

To losing his fucking mind, probably.

The air around him does that thing again, grows thick with an emotion that isn’t his own. This time it’s a sense of hurt, almost, and that just makes Louis scowl harder.

“Are you honestly _pouting_ right now?” he snaps, flinging his hands out to either side. The movement makes his head throb, but it’s something grounding to focus on. “I’ve just _brained_ myself on the fucking pavement and _you’re_ having a sulk? That’s really fucking rich, Casper.”

It’s quiet for a moment, the hurt thinning out slowly until the voice says, quieter than it’s spoken before, “Harry.”

“What?” Louis deadpans, staring straight ahead at absolutely nothing. The dull aching in his head throbs with each beat of his pulse. He wonders vaguely what it feels like to slip into a coma.

“M’name’s Harry.”

* * *

 

Faces have always been Louis’ strong point onstage. His voice doesn’t always do what he’d like and sometimes his body feels too small to carry a scene, but his facial expressions are top-notch. That's why he doesn't really blame the ghost when it starts laughing a few seconds later.

"You look like you ate a lemon," Harry says.

Louis scrunches up his nose. "Well, you look like fucking  _air_ _,_ so maybe hold off on being judgmental, yea?"

The air feels sorry. Louis pinches his own thigh really hard, just in case he's dreaming. 

"It's cute, is all."

The night goes a bit warm, like maybe _the air_ is blushing.

"Excuse me, dead Harry," Louis says slowly, blinking up at the sky, "but are you  _flirting_ with me right now?"

Giggles. Always the giggles.

"I don't go on dates with invisible men, sorry, babe." Louis has given up on rationalizing anything. He's a drama teacher, not a fucking scientist. Or priest. Or whothefuckever would be relevant to a playground-haunting ghost.

The sky seems to brighten a bit, like a haze that'd been hanging over the park cleared slightly. "I'm not- I could- you can see me."

Louis snorts at that, and it isn't even a _mean_ snort. "Sorry, love, promise you I can't."

The air around him vibrates with excitement, charged up with energy until Louis feels himself go warm with it.

"No, not here- I can't here, there's too much iron. But if we go outside the gate...?" Harry trails off, and his slow voice seems to've just gone more syrupy with excitement. It's like he can barely separate his words now that he's so anxious for them to reach Louis' ears.

"What's iron got to do with anything?" Louis asks suspiciously, but he's already standing carefully and pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders. Something warm and steady leans against his side, but he refuses to look over because he's absolutely certain his brain would fritz at the sight of empty space keeping him upright.

"It's a ghost thing," Harry says, voice much closer to Louis now- or not _closer_ exactly, because aside from the pressure against Louis' side, it doesn't seem like Harry is in any one place. His voice is just  _lower_ , and _everywhere,_  but Louis can hear it better. Maybe that's the concussion. "I can't really do things with iron- 's why there're all those iron gates around cemeteries, yea? So we don't get out?"

" _We?"_ Louis echoes faintly, staggering a bit until the warm semi-solid nothing encloses him more tightly, keeps him on his feet.

The air pulses apologetically. "Sorry, I just- I  _assume_ there's a  _we_ , but I've never met another ghost. But I guess someone did, at some point, because they got the iron thing down really well."

Louis just hums quietly in response, a habit he picked up from Zayn. They reach the gates- or Louis reaches the gates, and he can only assume Harry is there as well. Louis reaches out and carefully pushes the iron gate open, and as soon as he touches it he feels the warmth around him shrink away, leaving him standing alone in the chilly night air.

"Dead Harry?" he asks uncertainly, which is maybe ridiculous. He should probably just run.

"'M here," he answers, but it's faint. Louis pushes the gate open the rest of the way and steps through, waiting. Nothing happens.

"Dead Harry?" he asks again, feeling really extra  _stupid_ this time, because he's on the fucking street right under a street lamp, and anyone could walk by and see him talking to himself.

There's no answer, and after a moment of shifting back and forth and rubbing the chill from his hands, Louis frowns and turns to leave. He gets halfway up the street, past the playpark and near the proper green, before he hears the giggle again, right against his neck.

" _Christ_ ," he hisses, spinning away. His head offers a weak ache in protest, but that's quickly pushed out of his mind by- " _Harry?"_

He's beaming. And pretty. He's really pretty.

 _And really dead_ , Louis' mind supplies helpfully, with just a bit of acid behind the words to make them stick.

"Hiiiiiii," Harry says again, and god, he's all dimples and bright eyes and curls bursting out from under a gray beanie. Louis' maybe about to join him in the whole  _being a ghost thing_ , because he can't seem to get his heart beating properly.

"Hello, dead Harry." Louis' voice sounds strangled and high in his own ears. 

Harry isn't  _solid_ , exactly. Louis can see the outline of the city behind him, see a bit of the street light shining through his skin. It makes him glow. He looks like an angel.

Louis is concussed.

"Hello, living Louis." Harry reaches up to scratch beneath his beanie, grins down at Louis like this is all perfectly normal. "That's an alliteration."

Rolling his eyes keeps a lot of the softness off of Louis' face, so he does it so hard that he gets lightheaded. "I  _know_ that; I'm a teacher."

"A drama teacher," Harry supplies.

Louis should ask him how he knows that. He isn't sure he wants to.

"Well, what now, dead Harry? Now that I know you're a proper ghost, and you look like-" Louis waves his hand vaguely, gesturing up and down the length of Harry's body.

Harry just stands there grinning down at the ground, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back. "I dunno; it's been a long time since I left that playground. They close the gates at night, and I can't-" He jerks his chin meaningfully, and Louis nods. 

He nods, but his mind is caught up on  _been a long time_. That could mean anything. That could mean  _any_ amount of time. His brain gets  foggy trying to rush through all the possibilities of Harry's existence- as a person, and as a ghost- but the warm pressure against his side returns and he looks up to see Harry blinking down at him, tucked tight against Louis' side. 

"Could we just go on a walk?" Harry asks quietly, and his voice is so small that Louis is sure Harry knows what he was thinking about.

Louis looks up at him, at the vague outline of the stars and sky through his skin, and smiles. "That sounds nice, Harry."

He doesn't call him  _dead Harry_. Maybe Harry notices, because his dimples pop up and the air around Louis flashes summer-warm for a moment before Harry looks away from him. 

They go on a walk.

* * *

 

When Louis first tells Zayn, he lies. It’s not that Louis is specifically a _liar_ or anything, but he does enjoy a bit of dramatic flair. Sue him.

“Why were you in a bloody graveyard anyway?” is Zayn’s first question when Louis has finished regaling him with a really impressive, expertly embellished story.

Louis tips his glasses down his nose to give Zayn a proper glare over the rims. He doesn’t deign to answer, only partially because he hadn’t quite bothered to come up with that part of the story during his walk home- alone. Something about the river that divided the city had made Harry go blurry around the edges until he'd smiled a bit sadly and told Louis goodnight.

“You know, Zayn, I feel like you aren’t paying proper attention to the bit where I _met a fucking ghost_.”

Zayn hums noncommittally, gives that half-ass shrug that means _Yes, Lou, I glossed over that part because you’re a fucking liar._

Which, normally, whatever, but Louis _isn’t_ lying this time.

About the ghost part, anyway.

Instead of pressing the issue, Louis stomps off to bed, which is Zayn’s first clue that maybe he was telling the truth.

* * *

 

Louis stops by the park again the next night, but Harry isn't there. He waits ages, swings until his stomach threatens to come up out of his mouth, and there's still no Harry.

On a whim, Louis glances up, out over the wrought-iron fence, and he spots a shimmery outline beneath the street lamp. His heart stutters in his chest, and he's smiling softly before his brain's even caught up with his eyes.

He hops off the swing midair, lands on his feet in a way that would look pretty cool if someone were, say, watching eagerly from a vantage point a few feet away outside the playground entrance. Louis snatches his bag off the seesaw and skips to the gate, kicking it open with unnecessary force and skidding to a stop a foot outside the circle of the lamplight.

"Thought you'd passed on or something," Louis says, grinning so big his face hurts. He can actually  _feel_ the laugh lines gathered at the corners of his own eyes, and he tries to school his features but it's a bit hard when Harry blinks into existence right in front of him. 

"Nah, wouldn't," Harry answers, and he sounds tired but happy.

Louis ignores the off-balanced thumping of his heart at Harry's words, instead turning abruptly and walking down the sidewalk, trusting Harry to follow. "Big day, then?"

"Yeah, huge. The city's changed so much since the last time I was outside the park."

Louis doesn't ask when  _the last time_ was. It's sort of an unspoken agreement. 

"I went everywhere- there's an art gallery now. That's  _insane_. An art gallery, _here_ ," and Harry sounds so awed by it that Louis has to rub a hand over his own face just to keep his cheeks from cramping up.

"Did you go inside? What'd you think?" Louis asks, partially to keep Harry from noticing the terrible fondness on his face and partially out of honest curiosity.

Harry's brow creases, and he stares ahead thoughtfully for a few moments. "I liked the neon signs," he says at last, glancing down at Louis. Louis wouldn't have noticed if he weren't also watching Harry from the corner of his own eye.

"Of course you would," Louis sighs, sounding truly put-upon. "You would be into that sort of artsy hipster shit. You're  _that_ kind of ghost."

Harry squawks indignantly, swatting at Louis with one huge hand. It doesn't feel solid, exactly, just  _warm_. " _That_ kind of ghost? How many ghosts have you been going on late night walks with, then?"

"Enough," Louis says, nose pointed up at the sky. 

They keep a terse silence for only a few seconds before Harry breaks into a giggling fit, resting the heat of himself against Louis' body. "Enough is right."

* * *

 

Louis isn't sure if _dating_ is a thing one does with a ghost. He'd ask Zayn, but he's still sort of pissed off that Zayn hadn't believed him about Harry in the first place.

Still, he notices Zayn watching him a bit more closely when they sit down for takeout dinner on the living room sofa, but if Zayn isn't going to ask, Louis isn't going to tell. 

* * *

 

"Why did you tell him we met in a  _cemetery_?" Harry asks, sounding sort of horrified.

Louis glares at him, because that's not the proper response either. His friends are the worst at reacting correctly to his stories. "The _point_ is that he should _believe me_ because we're _best friends._ "

Harry sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and chews it thoughtfully, eyes trained on Louis the entire time. He does that a lot- the _staring_. Louis isn't sure if it's a ghost thing or just a Harry thing.

After a moment, Harry shrugs one broad shoulder, shakes his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Lou. I don't know how to help- unless you bring him to come see me?"

And there's an idea.

"You wouldn't mind?" Louis asks, eyebrows raised high. 

Harry shrugs again, and his face goes soft and self-conscious. "It'd be nice, I think. I'm sort of-"

He trails off, doesn't say  _lonely_ , but Louis pushes into his warm space and breathes out comforting syllables anyway.

* * *

 

Louis doesn't tell Zayn why he needs to come meet him after work. He just says  _Be there_ and Zayn says  _Alright_ , and that's the last of it. They're like that sometimes; it's why they get along so well.

When Louis exits the school, Zayn's already leaning against the safety fence, smoking a cigarette and looking like all sorts of trouble. Louis loves him even when they aren't exactly speaking.

"Alright?" Zayn greets him, voice gruff from smoke and leftover pointed silences.

"Yea, 'm fine," Louis answers, and he lets himself smile a little. Zayn's lips pull up at the corners as well, and just like that, they're laughing at nothing, wheezing with the unexpected lightness.

"You're a fucking _idiot_ , Lou," Zayn breathes, laughs it into Louis' neck when he pulls him in for a hug. 

Louis allows it, hugs him back. He waits for Zayn to step back before he lets his face go serious. "I need to show you something though."

"About your  _ghost_?" Zayn asks, grinning.

Louis purses his lips and doesn't answer. Zayn's smile falters at the edges.

They walk the few blocks to the park, hang around on the swings until the sun goes down. Zayn doesn't ask questions, content to sit and wait with Louis at his side.

When the first stars flare up, the empty seesaw shudders and moves, creaking to life all on its own. Zayn's head snaps around to stare at it, and Louis bites his lip so he won't laugh. Harry'd wanted to just  _tell_ Zayn, because Harry is  _boring_. Louis had insisted on a bit of a show.

"What's that?" Zayn whispers, mouth barely moving from a tense line.

"Dunno," Louis says easily. Zayn turns to glare at him, but as soon as his eyes move away from the seesaw, it creaks back to life, crashing against the ground with a dull thud. Zayn's eyes are comically wide and Louis is honestly about to lose vision in his left eye from holding in his laughter, but then-

"Lou, can I quit now? He looks scared; I don't like it..."

There's possibly nothing on earth Harry could've done that would've been scarier than that sweet, worried, bodiless voice drifting eerily between Louis' and Zayn's swings. 

Zayn's out of his seat before Louis can even start laughing properly, whirling away and looking around the dark for any sign of  _someone_.

"Won't be able to see him, Zayn, not til we get outside the fence," Louis wheezes, and he can feel Harry's disapproval cool against the back of his neck.

"See  _who_?" Zayn demands, glaring at Louis like he's the worst thing on the planet. He might be.

"Harry," Louis gasps, finally pulling himself together enough to wipe the tears from his eyes and grin up at Zayn.

"Harry," Zayn echoes, eyes darting around like he's waiting for something to materialize out of thin air.

"C'mon," Louis says, holding out his hands for Zayn to pull him up, "We'll show you."

Zayn is still looking at Louis like he's something gross that crawled out of the shower drain, but he grabs his hands and pulls him to his feet anyway. "Fucking hate you," he hisses.

Louis just laughs, bumps their shoulders together. "Nah, you don't."

They cross through the gate, keep walking until they're well past the iron fence. When Louis stops, Zayn hesitates like he might keep walking, but he eventually comes to a halt facing Louis.

"Alright, Harry," Louis says softly, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Harry blurs into being, more slowly than he normally would, like he doesn't want to scare Zayn off. He's frowning, deep furrow between his eyebrows as his green eyes dart worriedly between Zayn and Louis.

"I'm really sorry," he mumbles, and Louis can barely hear it, like the sound is centered more around Zayn than him. That's a new feeling. "Louis said it'd be funny, and I haven't- I don't get to meet many people these days, so I wasn't sure-"

Zayn's giving Harry the most deadass stare Louis has ever  _seen_. It would be funny if he weren't a little worried that Zayn might turn at any moment and punch him in the face.

"You're a ghost."

It's not a question. He's accepted it faster than Louis had, at least.

Harry nods emphatically, lips pressed tight like he's scared he might say too much and send Zayn running.

"You're the ghost Louis tried to tell me about."

At that, Harry's lips pout out and he shoots Louis a  _look_. "He lied, though. About the cemetery. He did lie about that."

Zayn shoots Louis a more concentrated and acidic version of the look Harry's giving him. "He likes to exaggerate sometimes."

Louis rolls his eyes, steps between them and waves his hands like he can clear the conversation from the air. "Now, now, let''s not dwell on  _details_. The important thing is- I was telling the truth about the ghost."

Harry pouts again, sends another cold wave of disappointment rolling down Louis' back. 

" _Harry,"_ Louis backtracks. "Told you the truth about Harry." _  
_

"Sort of," Zayn and Harry chorus, and then they grin at each other over Louis' shoulder like he's in the way of their blooming friendship or something.

* * *

 

Zayn fucks off across the bridge when they reach it, shooting Harry a shy but optimistic smile over his shoulder and flipping Louis off. Small victories.

"He's great," Harry says, and Louis can  _feel_ it, the way the air is thick with Harry's relief. Louis hadn't realized how worried Harry'd been about meeting Zayn, but he can tell now that it's over.

"He likes you," Louis says softly, smiling up at Harry and basking in the good vibes he's putting out. 

Harry hums happily, buries the warm energy of his face against Louis' neck. "I like _you_ ," he says, and it's not muffled by Louis' skin- it feels more like it's echoing around in his skull, like he's dizzy with it.

"Like me enough to kiss me goodnight, Harry?" 

The air  _c_ _rackles_ , a sharp spike of electricity that stands Louis' hair straight up. Harry's form wavers, shakes out and then back into existence, and Louis just blinks, a bit scared by it all.

"What was that?" he demands, voice made sharp by the stab of worry in his gut. "Are you okay?"

Harry's grinning so broadly he looks like a cartoon, all white teeth and scrunched eyes. "Yeah, yes, I'm- I want to. I don't know if-? But I want to," he babbles, slow and lazy voice at odds with the way the air is buzzing around them.

"If you electrocute me, Harry, I swear to god..." Louis says, but then Harry's-

Kissing him? Maybe?

Louis hasn't kissed many - _any_ \- ghosts, and it certainly doesn't feel like kissing a living person. His lips go warm and his whole body hums and glows with borrowed energy, like Harry isn't just kissing him, but lighting him up from the inside. This close, he looks solid and real. 

They don't break apart so much as Harry fades out of sight, spreads himself out to wrap around Louis like he'd done that first night in the playground.

"Well, that was something," Louis says, voice quieter and more serious than he intends. "Where'd you go? Did I break you, Harry?"

The night squeezes slightly, radiates a feeling like  _purring_ all through Louis' body.

"Was just a lot," Harry mumbles, voice sleepy-thick against Louis' chest.

They stay like that for ages, Louis standing on the sidewalk with the river rushing in his ears, until finally Harry pieces himself back together.

"I like you," he says again, eyes bright as the stars Louis can see through his pale skin. 

Louis laughs, can't do anything else without breaking apart like Harry had moments before. "I like you, as well," he says, breath hitching in his throat.

When Louis crosses the bridge, he gives one glance back, sees Harry still there, watching him with that huge dopey smile on his face. Harry raises one big hand to wave, and Louis salutes him, can't stop grinning to himself the whole walk home.


End file.
